


Find the Flask We're Playin' Fast and Loose

by Darkmagyk



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Chicago (2002), Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Chicago, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, like the musical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkmagyk/pseuds/Darkmagyk
Summary: The Chicago AU no one asked for.CHICAGO EVENING STARIn a shocking turn of events, Chicago's latest Jazz Slayer (accused of killing her husband Harry Hardyng and her stage partner Myranda Royce) has retained the services not of the notorious local defense attorney, Peytr Baelish, but of Jon Snow, a New York City lawyer known for only taking the cases of people he is sure are innocent.Title change: Formerly Stay Away from Jazz and Liquor





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I...I don't even know what happened. But here is an AU nobody asked for.  
> I hope you like it.
> 
> Edit: This was formerly called Stay Away From Jazz and Liquor. I changed the title mostly because I should not be allowed to name things at 3 in the morning.

“You lied to me,” She accused, filling her voice with righteous indignation. Though the truth was, as one of the best criminal defense lawyers in Chicago, lies were his bread and butter. She wasn’t so much angry as disappointed. And in herself as much as him. She really should have known better. 

“I said I’d see you released,” He countered.

“You did,” She agreed, she didn’t like his tone, like she didn’t remember, like she wasn’t there, like it wasn’t only six weeks ago, “I told you that wasn’t good enough. That I wanted to be proven innocent in a court of law. Do you not remember? Perhaps you should see a doctor, that’s a worrying sign.”

Baelish pursed his lips, “I remember,” He finally spat out, “I told you that would cost more than my standard fee.”

“Yes,” She said, she was a little angry now “And when I asked what that would be, you quoted me ten thousand. Which I gave you.” She was a little indignant now, “Not for the purposes of a plea deal, not to shift attention somewhere else, not to harangue me on some sort of technical issues with chain of evidence or anything, but to prove that I did not kill Myranda and Harry.”

“But the problem, my dear Alayne,” He said, with his slimy grin back in place, “Is that you did kill them, and so proving that you didn’t, as opposed to just saving you from the noose, is a much harder prospect.”

It felt like a blow to the gut. She had thought, she had hoped, that when she told Petyr Baelish that she didn’t kill her husband and her dear friend, that when he had nodded and smiled, that when he had patted her and assured her “Of course dear.” That he meant it. That was one of the reasons she’d paid the ten thousand, because he’d seemed genuine then, in her first days in jail, when the weight of what she was facing had sat heavy on her chest.

He seemed slimy and sticky now. A liar and a cheat, ready to take her money and ruin her in the process. And to think her mother always said he was sweet, like a brother. 

“No,” She said, “I didn’t.” And she could feel tears prick her eyes. She hadn’t involuntarily cried in years. Had once promised that she would never do so again. But she’d never been accused of murder before, and that was providing her with a whole new set of emotional responses.

“I don’t see why you insisted keep up the act with me,” Baelish tutted, “And we can still do it, but the price will go up.”

More than the ten thousand she already paid, “It isn’t an act, I didn’t kill them. I’ve never killed anyone. But I don’t have any more money,” She hissed, “Because you promised you’d do what I asked for twice your normal fee, which I gave you.”

His responding smile made her sick, “You have things I want more than money.” He rested his hand on her’s. He’d done that before, but it had always seemed fatherly, concerned. It had nothing of that now.

She pulled her hand back.

“I’ve made my offer,” He said, “You will not get a better one.” He rested a hand on her hand, again, and lay the other one on her shoulder. She was boxed in.

The nice Hungarian girl had insisted she wasn’t guilty either, and they’d hung her last week.

She’d be a cautionary tale soon, one of the stories they told, about what happened when good little girls got wrapped up in jazz and liquor.

She took a deep breath. There was only one choice, really. She had one more play. He only knew her as a down on her luck jazz singer with familare eyes and surprising access to ten grand, but one word, and she new she could change that. All she had to do was bring herself to say _Cat_. 

A guard opened a door, popping his head in “Mrs. Stone,” They always called her that. She’d kept the Stone professionally, had never had any use for Hardyng, and it carried over. She didn’t mind it on the aesthetic level. But it was a subtle dig she hated, _we think you killed your husband_. “your other lawyer is here.”

She glanced at Petyr, and his shock was clear. He didn’t move though, kept looming over her, possessive.

The man the guard led in was a sharp contrast to her current lawyer. Petyr Baelish was the height of fashion, his loose suits in plum checks. His hair trimmed in just the right style, his breath always as fresh as mint.

This man wore a too slim suit that would have been popular at a club five years ago, rendered in a black that had begun to fade with age. His hair was long, but not slicked back to be modern, and he wore a thick bread that looked wholly out of place on one so young.

“Who are you?” Baelish snapped.

The man took in all of Baelish’s appearance, his eyes lingering where he touched her. Then he met her eyes, his dark grey to blue. He didn’t smile, but she could feel it, the promise that it would be all right.

“I’m Jon Snow,” He said, holding out a hand so Baelish had to let her go to shake it. “I’ll be representing Mrs. Stone from now on.”

Something in the way Petyr’s jaw twitched made her think that he recognized the name.

“You’re fired,” She said, without ceremony or pause, “I expect my five thousand dollars back.”

Baelish was escorted out, but he didn’t promise her any of the money back.

“Don’t worry about that right now, Mrs. Stone,” Mr. Snow assured her. “We’ll get your money, but I work most of my cases pro bono anyway.”

“Thank you,” Was all she could say.

“You’ve made quite an impact on the papers, they’re talking about your all the way to New York.” He said. He looked her up and down, taking in her growing out brown bob and the beginning of auburn roots hiding behind it. Her drab prison clothes. Her pale, shaking hands. “Though their were no pictures of you there.”

She shook his head, and then sat down in the chair opposite her.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

She nodded, firm, sure. She’d told this story a hundred times already. To the police, to the matron, to her fellow inmates, to reporters, to Baelish, to guards. People asked and she told them what she remembered.

This was just another lawyer. Another person who needed to know about the fourth worst night of her life.

“My husband, Harry, and Myranda and I were in Cicero, and we ran out of gin, and I’m not much of a drinker, really but…”

“Stop, please,” Mr. Snow cut in, his voice was rough, his accent obviously not of the Midwest “I asked for you to tell me what happened. I don’t mean the night of the murder. Please, tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

She stared at him for several long moments and then nodded.

She started over.

***

The truth was she was a country girl at heart. She hadn’t know that as a girl growing up in the country, but enough failed excursions in London and Paris, in New York and Chicago, had proved that much.

If she got out of this, she wouldn’t try again. 

And she told her lawyer as much.

She’d wanted to be a star, she explained. Wanted her name in lights and adoring fans. Wanted to make people love her. And Harry and Myranda had made promises to that effect. Harry had said he knew people, and Myranda had been as good at bawdy jokes as she had ever been at singing or dancing or playing music.

She’d been so eager and they’d been so open and accepting of everything she had to give.

Harry would make their travel arrangements, and she and Myranda would perform the double act, all over the East Coast first, and then up and down the Mississippi river.

It had seemed exciting, in a sort of detached way, on the road, in hotels and boarding houses, new clubs and bars every night. Even the occasional speakeasy bust. But mostly, it had been exhausting.

She missed what was left of her family in New York. She missed having a home and a bed to call her own.

And she was getting older. Two years of that, nearing the end of her twenties, and the career was not going very far, her dreams of domestic life, a husband and children, seemed to be slipping away.

Harry had married her then.

Jon Snow nodded along to her story, looking grim and regretful until she got there. It had really only been six months ago, including the time in jail. A quick ceremony, Myranda by her side, her dead father and brother ghost witnesses there, not giving her way. 

“Were you in love with him?” He asked.

She could only shrug, “I wanted to be.” Which was the truth. He was handsome, he was charismatic, and he kept saying he was her ticket to stardom. It was hard not to like him, despite the fact that he often put his foot in his mouth, and could not talk to any woman without looking her in the chest. And the fact that he was sleeping with Myranda. She’d spent many nights reminding herself that perfect didn’t exist, but that she could make the best of her resources. She was good at making herself believe things in the moment.

“After that, he said we could settle down, he found us a place in Chicago that would keep up on for a while, we got a room. We set up shop.” It had not been a very nice room, but it was cheap. She and Harry shared the bed and Myranda took that couch, and they called it cozy instead of cramped. But they were all getting tired of it. And they kept badgering her about getting a bigger place.

She had always said that Harry should get them more money at the club or find them a better gig. She’d always reminded them that she was terrible at math and Myranda did the budgeting.

They’d still harassed her.

She was crying, again, by the time she got to the morning in question. It wasn’t even a very interesting story, until the end.

“It was Tuesday, we didn’t do a show on Tuesday, but we normally go to our club, because they let us eat for free, if not drink.” She explained. “But we left early because we didn’t like the act, they let a bunch of hopefuls try out whatever they want on Tuesdays and it was a bad night for that. But we’re use to late nights, so we didn’t feel like sleeping when we got home. So we drank a little, chatted. The usual. But we ran out of gin.” She sighed, “I’m not actually a big drinker. I had a bad experience with a woman and wine when I was younger, so I was the most sober. They sent me out to get some more. There’s a girl in the neighborhood, Mya, we bonded over our names, she’s always got the supplies you need for the price you want, and she’s open late, so I went to see her. She doesn’t run a joint, really, but people like her, so chances are if you show up, she has friends around, and you get invited to join in. So I was gone for about two hours, between getting there and getting invited in and so on.”

She took a long shuddering breath. “It was about 2:30 when I got home,” I reached in my pocket for my key, but I couldn’t find it. It must have slipped out on the street. But the door was unlocked. I knocked on the door, but no one answered, then I tried the nob and it was unlocked. So I went inside with our gin, and...and…and…”

“That’s where you found them?” Jon asked.

“Yes,” She said, “They must have been on the bed together, sitting and talking and waiting for me, because Myranda was still there, but Harry had fallen off. There was blood everywhere. It was, it was just awful.” It had been almost as much blood as with Father. But she didn’t say that. “I screamed, then, and went running, and the landlady called the police. And I explained what happened to them, I did, but they just said that I did it, that it was a lovers spat, and that it would be a hanging case and I…” She started sobbing then, remembering it all. The blood, the paleness of their corpuses, the way the police officers had looked at her.

Jon rubbed her arm, distant, but comforting, and offered her his handkerchief.

“I see,” He said, nodded firmly, “Yes, I read the story in the papers, but I wanted to hear it from you,” He met her eyes again. “I can get you off of this.” He promised, solemnly.

“I don’t want to just get off.” She said, “I want a court of law, a jury of my pears, to say I didn’t do it. I want you to prove my innocence.”

“That’s not actually how the burden of proof works in this country, Mrs. Stone.” He said, but there was a slight smile to his eyes now, though his mouth stayed serious. Baelish had been the opposite. His mouth would smile, but his eyes would only ever be cold. “But nevertheless, yes, I’ll prove your innocence.”

***

The next morning she woke in her cell with a renewed outlook. Her life was no longer in the slimy little hands of Petyr Baelish. When she had shook Jon Snow’s hands at the end of their meeting, yesterday, they had been broad and young, but not without experience. He’d fought in the Great War, and had been one of the lucky ones to make it out, unlike her brother.

They were hands you’d trust with your life.

She went about her day, but just after lunch, she was called into the matron’s office.

She held her breath in the opulent room. The matron, she thought, was a friend of Baelish’s, the one who hooked up client and lawyer. What did it mean that she had fired him?

She was told to sit in one of the plush sheets across from the desk, and then a newspaper was thrown into her lap. _Stone and Snow_ , the headline read, with a picture that looked mostly like her, and was far better than her mugshot that had been splashed everywhere accompanying it.

“I’ll be damned,” Said the Matron, “You really aren’t guilty.”

“I’ve always said that,” She reminded them, she glanced at the paper again, “But why do you believe me now.”

The matron gave her a long, hard look, “you really aren’t a bright one, are you,” She said, “Just a pretty little bird locked in a cage.” She let out a laugh like that was supposed to be a joke. “Your new lawyer is Jon Snow.”

“I know.”

“You know his name,” the Matron said, “but do you know who he is?”

She shook her head no.

The Matron laughed again, “Dove, Jon Snow is a defense attorney in New York city. He always gets his people off, like my Littlefinger,” She laughed, “but he has an entirely different way of ensuring it.”

“What?”

“He only takes people who are innocent.” The Matron said, “Imagine being that kind of lawyer. Only taking cases that seem hopeless but people he knows didn’t do it. Does a lot of bootleggers and thieves who are accused of murder and stuff, and have prejudice working against them. Stands up for the little guy, they say.” The Matron motioned to the paper, where it did say all of those things.

Jon Snow, it seemed, had a sterling reputation. And it was enough to have so many people reform their opinion of her.

She kept the paper under her pillow as a good luck charm.

Jon came back two days later, looking nearly happy in his out of fashion suit and his aging bread.

“I’ve spoken to your friend Mya.” He explained, “She remembers that night clearly, who was there and that you were there and everything. And she’s more than happy to testify to that fact. It turns out Mr. Baelish,” He said the name like a curse, “Had not even been to talk to her.”

Another thought about Baelish that was sickening.

“But it doesn’t matter, I’m working with her, and we’ll find some other people who were there, so we can establish your location with respect to the murder.” He promised.

It went on like that. He’d come by every other day, with letters and gifts from her supporters outside, and with news of the case he was building. Several of Mya’s guests also wanted to speak on her behalf. He found someone in the building next to her’s who remembers hearing the gunshots when she was well and truly with those people. He talked to the people at the club, about Harry and his relationship to her and there money.

He talked and talked and talked. And by the time of her trial, it had all slotted together.

He brought her hair dye to cover her roots and make her look as natural a brunette as him. He brought her a new blue dress. Well-made but demure.

“Are you ready?” He asked, standing next to her outside the courtroom. Just the two of them. 

The truth is, she isn’t, “Jon, I’m scared.” She tells him.

He reached out to take her hand, and gives it a little squeeze. Then seems to think better of it. 

But he doesn't let go, instead, he pulled it, pulled her right into his arms, grasping them around her. 

It feels like forever since she’s really found comfort in someone’s arm, Myranda wasn’t much for physical affection, and Harry didn’t know that there was a difference between physical affection and fucking. 

Jon just held her close. Them against the world for a long moment. 

He made to pull back eventually, but she couldn’t let him go. Not now. She’d been alone for so long. In jail, of course, but before that too, living and traveling with Harry and Myranda. 

So she didn’t let him pull back, she pulled him close again, and brought her lips to his, kissed him hard and deep. 

Harry had been a terrible kisser. He’d kissed like he’d fucked, thinking the act of two bodies together was enough. She wondered what Myranda had gotten out of it. 

Jon was skilled though. As soon as their lips touched, he moved them, eager and inviting. He nipped at her lips and licked at her teeth, and Sansa couldn’t help the moan that escaped, as she dug her hands into his back. 

But the second that happened, he forced them apart. 

“When this is over.” He said, taking four wide steps back, and straightening his suit. “When this is over, when you’re acquitted, then...then we can…” He shook his head and licked his lips, “But I have to get you off, first.” 

She smirked, and he blushed when he realized what he had said, “I have to prove you innocent, first.” He offered, “and then, then things can be the way they should be.” 

She only half concentrate on the trial after that. Instead she found her brain full of the future, of grey eyed, red headed sons. 

They could name the first one Robb. She could picture him now, with red hair and her brothers charisma. Then an Eddard, who was sure to have his father’s gentleness and her father’s eyes. Then some daughters and maybe a Brandon, to square things off. 

It was a nice thought, nicer than having the terrible night recounted. Nicer then having to listen them recount the details of the affair Myranda and Harry were having. Nicer then having to look at the pictures of their bodies and listening to the medical examiner explain their death. Nicer then listening to the name Alayne Stone get dragged through the mud. 

Still, it was her life or death, so she made note of who spoke where about what. 

When the day was done, as Jon ushered her out of the courtroom, she glanced around the room, and saw, in the back, half smile that didn’t reach his eyes on his face, checked plum suit, and mockingbird pin on his his lipel, Petyr Baelish. 

He showed up everyday and sat quietly in the back. 

He had promised her a short trial as well, but she wants an acquittal. She wants the name Alayne Stone to be synonymous with the wrongfully accused, not someone who got away with murder. 

So the trial dragged on. 

The prosecution's case seemed to be that she found out about Myranda and Harry’s affair and killed them in a crime of passion. 

It was a little insulting, actually. She’d lived with them for over two years, she’d have had to have been either really stupid or really in love with Harry to fail to notice them. She was neither. 

They weren’t very good at hiding it. After all, the four people who testified to that fact already clearly knew. And only she shared a single room with them. 

It hurt though. Most of them didn’t seem to think she killed them. And when someone said something particularly hard, Jon reached over and squeezed her thigh in reassurance. 

But finally the last witness for the prosecution was called. His name was Lyn Corbray and he owned the club that she and Myranda use to work at. 

The prosecution asked the same old questions, how long they’d worked their, if he knew them, if he liked them, what he thought of she and Harry’s relationship, and if he knew about Harry and Myranda. 

The fact that he had apparently found them mid fuck more then once in various backrooms was not exactly a comforting thought. She’d been so friendly with so many people at the club, and the fact that Myranda and Harry had been so blatant and still no one had mentioned it hurt. 

She thought about teaching her own son Robb how to play the grand piano in the west parlor instead of thinking about it. And the fantasy almost caused her to miss the next question. 

“How much money did Mrs. Stone and Miss Royce make a week?”

“Nothing, Mr. Hardyng paid me to let them perform.” Corbray said. 

The murmur that went through the courtroom was sudden and loud. Jon looked at her in shook, and she hoped her own shock was apparent on her face. 

Jon managed some sort of brilliant save of a cross examination, where he questioned basically all of Corbray and his brother’s business connections, and pointed out the many illegal things involved in his hall that would not be prosecuted because of his current testimony. 

They left after the prosecution rested. But as they left the courtroom, for the first time, she found Petyr Baelish’s eyes. 

Jon wouldn’t meet her’s either, though he did leave her with a long squeeze of the hand. “I have a few things to fix. But tomorrow, we’ll move forward with our case.” 

Normally her dreams featured her phantom sons, play in the snow at Winterfell, their father throwing snowballs, their dead uncle laughing. But that night she just saw Petyr Baelish’s eyes staring down at her from every painting that hung on the old castle's walls. 

At least the next day Jon didn’t seem to be upset with her. 

He went about establishing the timeline of the night. He used Mya and her friends. A couple of her neighbors and a few other members of the club’s staff. Their neighborhood wasn’t the safest and gunshots had definitely heard at the same time she was sharing a tonic with Mya and Mr. Redford. 

He pointed out that the type of bullets used to kill them weren’t from a cheap gun, and that given the financial state they were in, no one among the group likely had access to that kind of cash, least of all if they were paying to live and paying to work. 

He had wanted to save her for last. To get the the timeline established firmly in everyone’s mind before they even broached the topic of emotions. 

She took special care of her appearance that morning. Her hair was far to long these days, brushing her shoulders, but she made sure it was brushed and shiny. A woman from Indiana had sent her a pretty green dress, cheap but comfortable and clean, and she wore it for its modest hemline. 

“I’ll take care of you,” Jon said, before they walked out, “You know that, right?”

“I know.” She agreed. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too.” 

And then it started. 

She was good at speaking. Good at performing. Good at razzle dazzling an audience. 

And all she had to do was tell her story. She’d done it so many times, and she could do it again. 

She explained how they’d started traveling together. How they’d come to Chicago. She explained why she’d married Harry and why Harry married her. She explained that she did, in fact, know that Myranda and Harry were sleeping together. 

“He was so sweet about my needs,” She explained, “I wanted to try and be accommodating to his. So just as he was willing to strop traveling everywhere, I was willing to slowly work our way up from marriage to monogamy and then things like children and golf on the weekends.” 

Jon nodded thoughtfully, and then brought up the big surprise from days earlier. 

“Did you know that your husband paid for your spot?”

“No,” She said, and their were the tear pricks, threatening to give way again. “I’m so bad at math, Myranda and Harry handled the money. They always have. They just said we made about a hundred from the club a week, and that that was enough.” 

Jon looked so understanding about all of it. And just urged her to continue. 

It was all too much for her, really. A murder trial, the man of her dreams, the specter of half a dozen dead hanging around them. She started balling. She couldn’t stop it if she tried. 

“I...I” She choked, a bit, “Can, can I have a glass of water please, someone.” The bailiff rushed forward with one, just as Jon rushed forward with a handkerchief. She drank and then whipped at her tears with the black linen. In the corner, there was a little embroidered red wolf, and once she had dried some of her face, she kept it balled in her hand, worrying it with her thumb. “I’m sorry,” She managed to get out, “I just...I...Harry knew how much I wanted all of it. Chicago and the state and everything. And when I wasn’t good enough for it, well, instead of insisting that I pack up and make his dinner for him, he paid money so I could perform. He and Myranda both. They protected me. They loved me. I always knew that, but I never knew how much until now. And I only know now because someone killed them.” The tears came again, worse, maybe. “Some terrible person took them from me, and now I can never thank them. I can never repay them. Instead I have to sit here and hear about how _I_ was the one who killed them.” Her breathing was getting heavier, but still she spoke her truth. 

Jon announced that he had no further questions. And though the prosecutor tried, and though she trembled when faced with him, it was as clear as anything that the fire had gone out of him. 

Jon rested at the end of the day. And as they separated for one last night, he kissed her forehead. 

She felt better the next morning, clearer and ready to face the world. Jon too seemed to have the jovality of a boy. 

“Today is the day you get acquitted,” He said.

It was a lovely thought, though she so did not want to get her hopes up too soon. 

The prosecutor heart was clearly not in his closing statement. But Jon’s was. His proclamations of her innocence were loud and insistent. He’d never have Robb’s charisma, but he had her father’s ability to command a room and be respected for his honor. 

She hoped it would be enough. 

It took the jury just 45 minutes to deliborate. And Jon did not even try to hide how he grasped her hand when they waited for the verdict. 

“If something’s gone wrong, we have time” He whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry.” 

She tried very very very hard not too. 

It did not stop her from crying when the not guilty verdict was announced. 

Jon hugged her, the courtroom erupted, and no one on the State side seemed to be able to muster up much animosity because of it. 

“We are so close,” Jon whispered in her ear. “I have a car waiting. We need to make a statement to the press. And then we can go home.” 

She nodded, feeling suddenly like she could do absolutely anything. 

Jon kept her close as they went out to the busy halls, but when a throng of reporters made their desires known, he left her side to make their statement. 

“Well well well,” Came Petyr’s voice right next to her years, “looks like you’re a free woman,” 

“I’m an innocent woman,” She challenged. 

“Apparently,” He nodded, “I could have done it in a quarter of the time.” 

“Yes,” She agreed, “But then where would I be?”

“I could have made you happy,” Was his response. 

She actually snorted a little at it. His eyes narrowed, and he shot a look at Jon. 

“He’s in love with you, you know,” He decided to add. 

“I did,” She agreed, “The main difference, between you and him, is that I want him to be.” 

That, at least, seemed to stun him into silence. 

But she had one more thing to add. One last shot to render this man breathless. She leaned in close, so only his ear could hear her, and whispered, a bit of her father’s Scottish tongue coming through, “Catelyn Tully never loved you.” 

And then she bounced forward to join Jon. Leaving her mother’s childhood friend in her wake. 

Alayne Stone had been cleared of all charges. And Sansa Stark walked out of the Chicago Courthouse a free woman.

***

The train was heading east, and in one of the first class compartments, a fashionable couple sat together. 

He wore an impeccable suit in sharp black, but with a scarlet tie and ruby cufflinks. His long face clean shaven and his hair slicked back. He wasn’t an unhandoms sort, but the woman was the real stand out. 

She wore grey silk, despite the travel, and her ice white hat and gloves were as lux as they came. Her face was an exquisite beauty, classically gorgeous in any age, but set against her cheek length red bob, thoroughly modern. 

If anyone were to hear them speak to each other or the conductor, they would have noticed the thoroughly European accents, though weather they’d have pinged it as particularly Scottish would have been anyone’s guess. 

“Some members of the Old Country Aristocracy,” One of their compartment partners whispered to her companion. “Perhaps coming to the colonies to escape some scandal.”

As it happened, this was spoken too loudly. And so Lady Sansa Stark, the eldest daughter of the late Duke of Winterfell, had to bury her head in the shoulder of one Prince Aemon Targaryen, of the lately defunct little principality of DragonStone, and known as Jon, for his third name, to his intimates. Had she not done so, the great giggle she released at how utterly wrong the statement was might have causes a minor scene. 

And Lady Sansa had caused enough scenes for a lifetime. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologizes to Myranda Royce, who does not deserve this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It had come to my attention that the original version of this has a weird ending. This is mostly because I wrote the entire thing in less the 24 hours, and was bound and determined that I would finish and post it before I went to sleep. Which mostly meant I was writing the ending quickly at 3 in the morning, and then immediately posting it because I'm insane. 
> 
> This morning I discovered the folly of my ways, and so have created a little chapter two, to at least provide some more sort of context. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy the new and at least sort of improved ending.

A nondescript car drove away form the courthouse on the day of Alayne Stone’s acquittal with the woman herself and her lawyer. Their final destination could not be determined by the press, though everyone expected a forthcoming statement about the case, and Mrs. Stone’s future. 

This proved disappointing. Because short of a man named Edd stopping by the jail to pick up Mrs. Stone’s affects the next day, nothing of her was ever heard from again.

***

They had a sleeping car together. It might have been unseemly in another age, a lady and her male cousin sharing such close quarters, to sleep at that, but America was headed for hedonism. So who could care. 

And besides, she was a woman wed and widowed. 

Any lessons the Charleston ship building heiress that was Catelyn Tully had instilled in her daughters about virtue many years ago were long since the victims of jazz and liquor. 

But even so, Jon did not do anything untoward. They’d traded something like two dozen kisses, but her subtle prodding produced nothing else. 

Perhaps the weight of a disapproving uncle and cousin lingered when he drew his eyes up her body. 

Or perhaps he knew she’s hiding something. 

“Jon,” She said, and his eyes glanced up from his paper. It was a New York one from several days ago, and the headlines were free of references to murderesses. 

“What’s wrong?” hearing her distress.

She didn’t say anything for a long moment, but he didn’t break her gaze. 

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see him, and finally said “I did, actually, kill them.” 

She heard the newspaper close, but nothing else happened. Perhaps because they were stuck on a train, and she was in his way towards the door. 

“Yes, Sansa, I know that. It took me weeks to convince your neighbors that they heard the gunshots at 1:30, when you were definitely with Mya, and not at 11:30, when you actually shot them.” She opened her eyes, and he was looking straight at her. “I do wish you hadn’t.”

She hung her head. “I…” What did she have to say to that. 

“I mean, I understand a crime of passion is a crime of passion, but if you’d just called, we could have done all the planning up front.” He sighed, “Made sure you weren’t implicated at all.” 

She blinked, for several long moments before slumping down in her seat. “And I killed two people.”

“I’ve killed a lot more.” 

“Germans,” She said, kind of half heartedly, “They killed Robb.” 

His eyes narrowed, “Robb was killed by bad orders,” He spat, and she remembered a drunken rant or two, about Roose Bolton and Tywin Lannister. Their promotion was one of the things that had causes their mass exodus to New York City just after the war ended. “And Germans are people too. Most of them are probably more people than Harry Hardyng was.”

She laughed a little, but…”You would have helped me plan their murder?” 

“Me, or well, probably Arya, she likes staging accidents.” He paused them, leaning towards her, “Are you sorry?” 

“Are you kidding.” She did laugh then, “No, I...I just wish I hadn’t been so stupid in the first place. Running off, staying away, getting married.” 

“You had dreams, that’s not stupid. And I’ve seen the marriage license, Alayne Stone does not exist. You were never legally married.” Jon said, “Though I’ll admit I’m still confused by some of it. You’re a very talented singer and dancer. There was no reason anyone should have to be paid to let you preform.”

“Their was, actually,” Sansa said, “Harry was one of Lyn’s business partners. Silently, of course, and they were working with one mob or the other.” She shook her head. “But they weren’t turning a profit. You know me, I know society, not math, I just know they didn’t like the numbers they were getting, so Harry was slipping them money on the side, and having it put down in the books as us paying to preform.”

“With what money?” Jon said, “I never did manage to track that down.”

“Mine,” She said, “That’s why I killed them.” 

Jon raised an eyebrow at that, “You don’t have to,” He said, “But I really would like the full story.” 

She couldn’t not share it with him, not really. “I did know that they were paying him under the table. I did not know they were using the money I was providing them for our livelihood to singularly keep the place afoot.”

“How did you find out?”

“They got drunk and told me,” She said. That’s what haunted her about the night much more than the murder. Not the death, not her pounding heart as she looked over the dead bodies of people she had known so well. That they had thought so little of her as to be willing to share their entire scheme with so little prompting, “They were mad at me. Because I didn’t want to give them any more money. I’m no good at math, you know that, and I’m not great at money either, I’ve never been great at knowing what things should cost. But I thought surely I was giving them enough for us to live. And when I said that, said that I was paying my share and maybe they should pay their’s, that’s when they drunkenly confessed that I was supporting not just us, but also basically all of Lyn’s business too.” 

“How much were you giving them?” Asked Jon. 

“About 250 dollars a week.” Sansa said, Jon’s jaw dropped. “That should have been enough?” 

“I saw the place you were living.” He said, “I really really wishes you hadn’t killed them now. Because damn I want to do it. Though I suppose it was your right.” He sounds vicious. The last time she could remember him talking like that, he’d been speaking about the Frey’s treatment of Mother. 

It was oddly validating. 

“Well, regardless, Myranda had bought herself a gun recently, for fashion or something, and I grabbed it and shot them.” She explained. “I was just so angry.” Because they were so angry at her. Calling her stupid and worthless, and hardly worth the money they were squeezing from her. 

It had been a relief, really, to fill them with hot led. 

And so she had gone out to drink with Mya and reveled in the feeling of lightness in her heart. 

It was only later that the weight of it hit her. And she’d gone into panic mode. 

“I managed to get rid of the gun on the way home, and then decided I’d make a big production of finding them.” She explained.

“I wish you had just called,” He said, reaching out to take her hand, “I really really wish you had called at any point in time. I only found out at all because one of Arya's Chicago contacts sent a paper with what was clearly your picture.” He looked almost hurt. “By the time I found out what was going on, Petyr Baelish already nearly had his hooks in you.” He squeezed her hand, almost too tight. “When I saw you two together…” He shook his head, “I remembered every story Aunt Cat ever told about him. I remembered that story about him and Uncle Brandon. I almost punched him in the face.”

“That would have been funny.” She said, “Though perhaps disruptive in a jail.” 

“Yes, and make sneaking you away in the face of a conviction so much harder.” 

That might have been even more shocking than his knowledge of her guilt. 

“You had people lie for me in court, and now you’re saying you’d have plotted a jailbreak?” She said, “Your entire persona is about being honest, you know.”

“No,” he corrected, “The entire point of making up Jon Snow and defending a few of my Free Folk smuggling friends was that they deserved to have someone believe in them. That’s always been the point. And I believe in you.”

She pulled her hand away then, and squished herself into his lap. He didn’t look unhappy with the intrusion, and grasp her back as she nuzzled her face against his freshly shaven jaw. 

She liked him better without it. He’d first grown it when they’d moved to America in the winter of 1920 and they’d all been desperate to escape the ghosts of home. 

The Mother and Father’s death, Robb’s loss in the war and Jon’s lingering scars, Bran’s fall, Sansa’s failed engagement . Even the dissolving of Jon’s father’s royal seat, and the fact that his half-brother had fought on the other side of the war. 

He’d hidden it all behind the thick brown beard as much as she’d hidden behind mouse brown hair that wasn’t her own, and the least fashionable version of the bob she could let herself get away with. Like how Arya liked to try every look imaginable. 

Now he didn’t look like Jon Snow, an over serious New York Lawyer. He looked like Jon, the entire family’s favorite cousin, home on holiday from Eton with Robb. It made her think of playing maidens and monsters in the godswood, and pranks in the crypts, and him assuring her that she was the best at piano of all her siblings. 

She kissed up his jaw now, before meeting his lips with her own. Every time she kissed him, it was better and better. 

He was still formally dressed from dinner, but she could make quick work of that, reaching down to his suspender as he nipped at her bottom lip particularly forcefully. 

But when she detached one, he caught her hands and moved them back, breaking his face away from here’s.

“Sansa, no.” He said, though she could feel through his trousers that he was very interested. 

“Why do you keep doing that?” She asked in all types of frustration. 

“It wouldn’t be proper,” He said. Though he let go her hands and laced his behind her back, keeping her close. 

“I was married, you know,” She teased. “Even if you say that because it was under a fake name it wasn’t legal, I still had marital relations with my husband. Then I killed him. Their is very little proper about me left.” Her little grin fell, “Or, is that the problem...what kind of prince wants some Midwestern con man’s cast off? Is that it.”

Jon growled, and this time he leaned in for the kiss, though he still broke it off. “I don’t know or care what anyone else wants.” He said, “But what I want, is to marry the most amazing woman in the world, and I want to do right by her, do it properly. And that means waiting until I marry her to do everything I want.” 

He hadn’t mentioned marriage yet. She hadn’t even really though it was a possibility. Her last one had been quick and weird and not at all legal. 

But to have something normal and real with Jon was almost to much. 

“And when will you marry her?” She asked. 

“As soon as possible.” That was rather specific. 

“We could have before we left Chicago.” She said, and the idea pleased her so much her voice was almost petulant. 

“We couldn’t, actually,” He said, “For one, I didn’t much want our real names on record in that bloody city, but more importantly, first cousin marriages are illegal in Illinois, and Indiana, and Ohio, and Pennsylvania.” He spoke with an authority that suggested he’d checked. 

“What about New York?” She asked, they’d be there tomorrow, she could marry him tomorrow.

“Aye,” he said, “It’s legal, but our train gets in at 11, and our boat leaves port at 4. I don’t think we’ll have time. We have to meet Arya, make sure she did actually get all of our things packed, and get through customs.” 

“Our boat?” 

“But the good news is that cousin marriage is perfectly legal in Scotland. Be it Gretna Green or Winterfell.”

“We’re going to back?”

“I told you we were going home,” He said, “Besides, we left grandmother’s ring there, and it will save me money having to buy you a new one.”

She was so happy at the thought, she even laughed at his joke as the train rumbled on. 

***

From the piano in the West Parlor of Winterfell, you could see out the great picture window into one of the Winterfell Gardens. 

It was the perfect place for Sansa to look out and watch as Jon led Robb, Lya, and Arya’s little Minisa through the basics of archery. 

Her little Catelyn, 4, was not interested in being outside, but also did not want to stay in the nursery with little Eddard and Brandon, who she often found amusing, but today seemed to think were boring. 

So Sansa had the little girl with her at the bench. Watching her fingers move against the ivory. 

She picked at a few classic tunes, but as she got distracted by Mini’s rather spectacularly bad showing, she started something different, something faster and looser. 

By the time she realized what she had done, she was half way through a song she’d once danced to in beads along with a woman she had killed. 

“I like that Mama.” Kitty said, when she finished. “It was louder then normal. What was it.” 

“Jazz,” Sansa said, “I like it too, though it isn’t as popular now as it use to be.” 

“Can you play more?”

“Yes,” She said, “One more, then we’ll talk about how some things, for the likes of us, are best done in moderation.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Check out my [tumblr](http://darkmagyk.tumblr.com/).


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